


even a small cough (even a small love)

by Schocker



Category: High School Musical: The Musical: The Series (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Trans Ricky Bowen (HSM: The Series), i barely mention it but Let It Be Known, on god we gon get you some decent parents bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21753943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schocker/pseuds/Schocker
Summary: When Ricky wakes up, his ears are ringing, his mouth is drier than the desert, and he’s pretty sure he’s being smothered to death.Ricky does not like being sick.Or: Ricky Bowen has a bad day and no support. One of those is a lie.
Relationships: Ricky Bowen & Carol Salazar-Roberts & Dana Salazar Roberts, Ricky Bowen & Nini Salazar-Roberts
Comments: 26
Kudos: 335





	even a small cough (even a small love)

**Author's Note:**

> ricky bowen is trans, thank you for your time
> 
> title from [ here ](https://murdersheroat.tumblr.com/post/184993350015/watchoutforintellect-anne-sexton-from-small)

When Ricky wakes up, his ears are ringing, his mouth is drier than the desert, and he’s pretty sure he’s being smothered to death.

He knocks his blankets off with a gasp, but after only a second of cool relief, he feels stiflingly hot again, like there’s not enough air getting into his lungs. When he tries to suck in a deep breath, he only manages to choke on agonizing, heaving coughs that leave him shaky and aching. 

Ricky does not like being sick.

It doesn’t happen often – rarely, in fact – but when it does, it always manages to be pretty brutal. He honestly thinks he’d prefer having a cold every now and then rather than getting perilously ill once every few years. And of _course_ it has to happen now, with the musical only six weeks out from opening night. 

But, he reasons with himself, he’ll be over it in a few days. And it’s a Friday, so he’ll have the weekend to recover, as weekend rehearsals don’t begin until four weeks out.

This day has been coming; a few days of a scratchy throat, overused from the musical and long hours, showed the early warning signs that Ricky had hoped would go away on their own. No amount of chugged orange juice could prevent this one, though.

He decidedly does _not_ want to go to school today. He can manage rehearsals, if he explains how sick he is and sits on the side to just watch. Even if it means watching EJ make sad googly eyes at Nini the whole time. Ricky can’t help but make a face at the thought. Though he and Nini have been patching up their friendship, Nini is nowhere near close to forgiving EJ (and the thought gives Ricky a little thrill).

He groans as he heaves himself up, ready to totter down the stairs and tell his parents he’s not making it to school today. He barely makes it to the top of the staircase before he hears the conversation that’s only getting louder by the word.

“ –about where Ricky’s going,” his mother says.

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” his father demands. “He’s not _going_ anywhere.”

“Be realistic, Alex." His mother’s voice takes on the specific derisive tone that makes Ricky’s stomach sink. His dad can never resist rising to the bait. “There’s nothing here for him. Chicago has _plenty_ of excellent schools and opportunities for him to grow that this desert can’t give him.”

His dad, predictably, grows louder, angrier. “If you think there’s nothing for him here, you haven’t been paying attention. I mean for God’s sake, have you even _spoken_ to him lately? No, you’re _gone_ all the time!”

 _“Don’t_ accuse me of being the one to leave when you’re the one who said to go!” she snaps back. “And how dare you accuse me of not being with my son when –”

Ricky doesn’t want to hear any more as he trails back to his room and shuts the door. The argument is still going, growing ever louder even with the barrier between them.

School it is, then.

He forgoes his binder when he gets dressed today, layering on a hoodie despite his growing fever. It's hard enough to breathe as it is.

They’re still yelling when he slips out the front door fifteen minutes later. Not about him anymore, but that brings little relief. He remembers what they start fighting over, after all.

He walks, keeping his board strapped to his back. He’s not trying to brain himself on the sidewalk when he’s so dizzy and out of breath that he can hardly manage walking in a straight line. After what simultaneously feels like forever and only a few seconds, he rounds the corner to school and shuffles in with everyone else. It’s a miracle he’s not late, given that he walked instead of boarded, but he probably left earlier than usual to escape his parents’ fighting. He nearly smashes his face right into his locker when he stops in front of it, and he has to stop and think hard to remember his combination. By the time he finally wrenches it open and crams his board in, he finally realizes Big Red is nowhere to be seen. Usually they meet by his locker, as Red insists on carrying all his belongings and doesn’t have to stop like Ricky does. But Red’s nowhere to be seen.

Ricky fumbles his phone, cursing when he nearly drops it. He feels so weak and clumsy right now, and he has to blink a bead of sweat from his eye. He should’ve taken some ibuprofen before he left for his fever, but his mind is so cloudy today. He can hardly think straight.

He texts Red, just a quick _???_ hoping he understands the message. Even looking at his screen that long puts a blinding throb behind his eyes. He crams his phone back in his pocket and sways in place as he tries to remember what class he needs to be in. 

He makes it through his English classroom door just as the bell rings, and his teacher gives him a warning glance but lets him walk quickly to his seat. He practically collapses into it with relief, his legs giving way before he means them to.

His teacher starts talking, and it’s like the words are swirling around his head, bouncing off just before reaching his ears. His phone vibrates and he jumps. The girl next to him gives him an odd look, but rolls her eyes when he reaches to discreetly check his phone.

It’s a text, but it’s not from Big Red.

**Mom**

**8:21 AM**

_Hi sweetheart! There’s been an emergency with work_

_and I’m going to have to head back to Chicago today._

_I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye in person._

_I’ll call you soon. Love you!_

Ricky sets his jaw and breathes sharply through his nose. He tells himself his eyes burn from the fever. From looking at the screen. Definitely not from the message.

It must’ve been a bad fight if she left right away. Gotten worse even after he left. He’s half grateful, half upset he wasn’t there, missing the fight but also his chance to hug his mother before she left. Again. Forever maybe.

Ricky’s startled from his muddled thoughts when the bell rings. Had it been the whole period already? How had the time slipped between his fingers like that?

He could go home, he muses, shuffling through the halls, feeling like he’s dragging his feet through mud, every step more laborious than the last. But he knows his dad is off work today, and he doesn’t feel like being around his dad when he gets in one of his moods. It’s depressing and hard to watch. 

He makes it to his physics class with time to spare and slumps into his chair. He gets another text before the bell rings.

**Big Red**

**9:03 AM**

_i told you yesterday bro ! lol im goin_

_t_ _o see my granparents this weekend. have_

_fu_ _n without me and dont make ur move_

_on nini without me there!!!_

Ricky sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face and wrinkling his nose in disgust at how much sweat he swipes up into his hair (he should probably drink some water, he thinks faintly). Without Big Red he’s pretty much down to no friends to help him out today. He fires off a quick _have fun, man_ and puts his phone away.

His head is still throbbing, and he allows himself a single moment of weakness to hunch forward to let his face rest on the desk in front of him. The surface is cool and pleasant, giving him just a few moments of relief before the bell rings and he peels his face back up with a quiet groan.

He actually makes an effort to pay attention in physics, but it’s just not happening. Any words swim in his eyes, and he has to close them a few times to make the room stop spinning. He starts getting queasy, breathing carefully through his nose. And he’s so fucking _warm_. He has to dab at the sweat on his face with the cuff of his hoodie a few times. He coughs hard into the crook of his arm when he breathes too deeply, so he makes sure to keep his breathing shallow from then on.

A minute before the bell rings, his phone vibrates again.

**Dad**

**9:54 AM**

_Bad news, bud. Got called out of town for work_

_for the weekend. I’ll be back Monday. Left_

_some money on the table for food._

_No parties_

The _party_ line was his way of trying to joke with Ricky, but it just makes him want to throw his phone across the room. Do his parents think he’s fucking stupid? That he’s five years old and that he couldn’t hear their yelling rattling the walls this morning? That they can placate him with some bullshit lies about work? He _knows_ his dad is off this weekend, but he’s probably going in anyway to get his mind off of Mom leaving. 

The bell rings and yeah, Ricky’s fucking going home. He’ll mope in his house until rehearsals at four, take a nap, maybe, and try not to think about his parents’ relationship crumbling around him.

 _Sneaking out_ is laughably easy; all he has to do is walk out of a side door and go home, effortless even as sick as he is. Once he’s out, though, the trek seems to take twice as much time and three times as much effort as the first time. He fumbles his keys hard and it takes him four tries to get them in the door to unlock it. 

“Hello?” he calls into the house. It’s the first time he’s actually said anything out loud all day, and he winces at how wrecked his voice sounds. Yeah, he’s definitely not singing at rehearsal later. “Hello?” he calls a little louder to make sure the house is empty, but raising his voice makes him cough again, hard enough to leave him slumped back against the door, wheezy and feeble. There’s still no response. He’s alone.

The thought isn’t nearly as reassuring as he thought it would be.

He nearly staggers to the couch before stopping himself. _Water_ , he thinks hazily, he needs to drink some water before he lies down. He’s been sweating so much and his mouth is still bone dry and his throat aches from the coughing. He manages to grab a glass from the drying rack and fill it up, sipping at it carefully to mind his unsettled stomach. He remembers once, when he was a kid, he’d been sick and chugged a huge glass of water. It made its return only an hour later. Ricky _hates_ throwing up. He hates being sick. This sucks.

Everything fucking sucks.

His hand trembles as he finishes the glass, and everything is too tight and hazy and hot to tell if its from how he feels physically or emotionally. He’s not good at figuring out his feelings on a good day, and this is most definitely not a good day.

He makes it to the couch and tumbles onto it, freezing in place when his stomach lurches. He keeps still, breathing shallow little puffs until it settles again. He worms himself into a comfortable position, eyes itchy and heavy. 

Just a nap, he thinks. He fumbles with his phone and sets an alarm for 3:30, letting it clatter onto the coffee table to let his eyes slip closed. That’ll give him enough time to head back to school for rehearsal. 

His breathing rattles loudly in the empty house. It seems bigger than normal. Quiet. Despite how hot he feels, he shivers. He tugs the blanket drifted over the back of the couch over his chest. It’s the soft fleece one his mom got him for his birthday last year. When they all lived together still. It makes his chest ache, and he firmly tells himself it’s from the coughing.

He wakes up without realizing he fell asleep. He’s groggy and damp and everything hurts so fucking badly. He fumbles for his phone, wincing and shutting it right back off when the light hits his face. Is he late? For…

What was he late for?

School? But, he cranes his head to look out the window (a fucking monumental effort that leaves him almost blindingly dizzy), it’s dark outside. Not the morning. Is he… was he supposed to meet someone? Nini, or – 

_Rehearsal_.

Ricky taps his screen again, ignoring the stabbing pain when he looks at the screen. He has – that’s a lot of notifications. Calls, texts, snapchats – is that an _email?_ – from various cast and crew in the show, some he hadn’t even realized had his number. He groans when he sees the time. 8:13. Rehearsal has been over for thirteen minutes. He completely missed it. 

_Fuck_ , he thinks furiously. Of course he went and fucked that up, too, because today hasn’t been terrible enough as it is.

He shoves himself to his feet angrily, stubbornly ignoring the way the room spins and his legs wobble dangerously. He manages a few steps before his left knee buckles _hard_. He catches himself on the wall, but it jars him so hard it knocks him into a wheezing fit of coughs, so hard his chest feels like it’s going to crack and his head’s going to explode and – then his other knee gives out as well.

He crashes to the ground in a heap, and suddenly he can’t breathe. His mouth flaps and he flails in place, feeling helpless and desperate for seconds, minutes, _hours_ –

He sucks in a breath, but too hard, and he’s back to heaving, excruciating choking, curled onto the floor and suddenly wishing he would just hurry up and _die_ soon rather than keep going like this. One particular cough drags and scrapes its way out of his throat with such force that he hunches into a ball, struggling to breathe back in. His ears start ringing, faintly at first, then growing louder until he can’t even hear his own desperate struggle for air. His vision goes grey at the edges, creeping in, darker, darker, until he can’t see anything at all.

The ringing keeps going and he can’t see, but he can still feel the cool tile beneath his face, and the debilitating sharp stabs of pain in his head and chest but he’s blind and he can’t hear and he takes back what he meant about dying he didn’t mean it he doesn’t want to die he can’t – he _can’t_ –

Sometime, eventually, his vision comes back. Spotty at first, his eyes fluttering in a panic, his breaths short and sharp. The ringing fades slowly, slowly, until it’s just him, curled onto the floor, sweat and drool and tears running down his face, feeling worse than he’s maybe ever felt in his life. His skin feels like it’s several sizes too tight, and his lungs are nothing but withered, sad little things that can’t even support a single breath.

He just lies there a while. Terrified, suddenly, of anything that could make _that_ happen again. When he finally uncurls, he does it as slowly as he can, carefully tilting his head to look around. 

Nothing has changed of course, but he’d had some half delirious idea that someone would find him and help him.

But here he lies, in a heap and all alone. The thought is no longer just upsetting, but _frightening_. What if he has another… whatever that was? What if he passes out? Hits his head? Bleeds out alone in his house with his parents as physically far from each other (and him) as they can manage?

The fears come to mind easier than a solution. The back of the couch is so close to him – if he can just reach out and heave himself to his feet, he can get off the floor. He reaches up, twisting to grab it weakly, but his elbow buckles and it slips from his fingers like his grip was nothing at all. Given how frail he feels, it probably is nothing.

He can’t even get off the ground, he realizes, horror dawning as the idea registers. He’s so fucking weak he can’t even drag his own sorry ass off the ground. Like a fucking wounded dog, curled up and sad and helpless. 

Helpless.

He should call someone, probably. Someone to help.

His mom will come – but, he remembers groggily. She’s gone. Chicago. Leaving. Left. Ricky tries to dodge the dread that washes over him at the thought and considers alternatives.

His dad, of course – but Dad left, too, he remembers, and that leaves him breathless in a different way. Like his actual heart was straining to keep going. It squeezes painfully in his chest and Ricky fights the lump in his throat. He does _not_ want to get caught in another fit.

Nini, his feverish mind settles on, because he and Nini are friends now, again, once, and Nini will help him if he asks. 

He blunders for his phone, lying just a few away where he dropped it when he fell. The time flashes briefly when he unlocks it and he blinks when he realizes its 8:41. He’s spent half an hour flailing on the ground, unable to even breathe properly. 

Help, he reminds himself, he really needs help.

He blinks hard, eyes straining, vision blurry, and he knows texting’s not happening. He hits the phone icon next to Nini’s name and it’s ringing. It rings once, twice, starts a third before stopping abruptly. He frowns, confused. Did the call drop? Service can be weird in his house; he’ll try again. Once, part of the second, then voicemail. Is her phone broken? Is his? Did it break when he dropped it? He tries a final time, growing desperate, panicky, then sags with relief when he hears Nini pick up. 

“Hey,” he says hoarsely, but she cuts him off immediately.

“Way to bail on rehearsal, Ricky,” she snaps, frustration seeping through Ricky’s clogged hearing. “You knew we needed you here, and you totally flaked. Not cool! I thought you were actually taking this seriously for once.” She scoffs and the sound makes Ricky flinch without meaning to. “Won’t make that mistake again.”

“But,” Ricky squeaks, but she talks over him again.

“Whatever, Ricky. See you around.”

 _Click_.

Ricky stares, lying on his side, phone still held to his face. There’s a sock and a tennis ball under the couch. The sock’s his, definitely, but the tennis ball is his mom’s. None of them play tennis, but she would stand against a wall and use it to try and work the knots out of her shoulders. She used to tease Dad about how his weak fingers couldn’t get them out and Dad would say it’s because her knots were like solid steel and they would laugh together.

He’s not gonna fucking cry.

He’s not going to cry over his parents. He’s not going to cry about Nini hanging up on him. He’s not fucking going to.

It takes him a few minutes to make sure, though. When he finally peels the phone from the side of his face, he has to wipe the sweat off on his jeans to get the screen to cooperate with him again. He backs out of Nini’s contact, shame curling low in his gut. He hadn’t meant to miss practice. He really was going to come. 

His eyes drag over a few contacts, his mind sluggishly debating who to try next. He is, he realizes slowly, face crumpling, not a person with a lot of friends. Big Red’s gone, his parents are gone, Nini’s not speaking to him, and that, he thinks with a blast of loneliness, pretty much constitutes the only people who care about him.

His finger stops where he’d been idly scrolling in his meager contact list onto a particular one that makes him pause. 

Mrs. Nini’s Mom #1, it says. It had been a joke, the second one beneath that says the same with #2. When he and Nini had first started dating, Nini’s mothers insisted on exchanging numbers in case of emergency. He’d named them 1 and 2 based on the order he met them in, but they always jokingly competed over the #1 spot. It always made Ricky laugh.

He clicks on the phone icon and puts it to his face before he can stop himself. It rings once, twice, and he almost yanks the phone away to hang up before he hears a, “Hello?”

He doesn’t say anything, his heart hammering.

“Ricky?” Mrs. Salazar-Roberts asks, confusion coloring her voice. “Are you there?”

“Hi, Mrs. Salazar-Roberts,” Ricky croaks.

“You know you can call me Carol, Ricky,” she replies, probably more out of habit than anything else. “Did you mean to call Nini? She’s upstairs right now if you want to talk to her.”

“No,” Ricky stammers. “No, I – I meant to call you. Um. Sorry.”

“Sorry for calling me?” Mrs. Carol teases, but it makes Ricky’s stomach sink with guilt.

“Sorry to bother you,” he says, his voice cracking. Should he just hang up? He should definitely just hang up. “I’m sorry, I’ll –”

“Ricky,” Mrs. Carol interrupts gently. “I was just joking. Are you okay? Do you need something?”

“Um,” Ricky says. He doesn’t know what else to say. This was stupid. A bad idea. He should really hang up. “I – it’s nothing, I’m sorry for bothering you. Um.”

“Ricky,” she says again. Something about the way she says his name, attentively, softly, like she _cares_ even when he was a shitty boyfriend to Nini, makes tears burn in Ricky’s eyes. “You’re scaring me, sweetheart. Do you need help?”

 _Yes_ , Ricky wants to scream, should scream, but the lump in his throat grows hard to talk around. He hums to try and clear it and manages to choke out, “I’m sick.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Carol says calmly. “Is someone there with you?”

“Mom’s – she – um, she… left. Dad went to… work? Out of town, he’s gone for, um... He told me but I don’t remember,” Ricky says, frustration filling him. His brain is just so _foggy_. Basic facts slip between his fingers. “A while.”

“You’re by yourself?” Mrs. Carol asks, sounding a little more alarmed. 

“I’m alone,” Ricky confirms. The words sound more hollow than he intends. “And um,” he starts, then stops as humiliation creeps up his spine. He feels like he’s going to be sick. “I got off the couch and fell, but I can’t…” Shame burns hot, hotter than the fever that now feels dangerous. He bites his tongue so hard it bleeds. “I think I’m _really_ sick, Mrs. Salazar-Roberts.”

“I will be there in ten minutes,” Mrs. Carol says, suddenly very urgent. “Do you understand, Ricky? Don’t move, okay?”

“’Kay,” Ricky mumbles, exhausted. 

“I’ll be right there,” Mrs. Carol says again. 

“There’s a key in the left flower pot,” Ricky murmurs. There’s no way he’ll be able to get up and walk to the door. He feels like he’s barely alive as it is.

“Okay, Ricky,” Mrs. Carol says. “I’ll see you in just a few minutes. Okay?”

Ricky hums some kind of assent, and then the line goes dead. He’s torn between sweeping relief that someone is coming and crippling mortification that he’s curled on the floor like a puny, pathetic thing. He shivers and his eyes slip closed. He’ll decide which to feel later.

Someone’s touching his shoulder and he pries his eyes open. A woman leans over him and he slurs out, “Mom?”

A hand, cool and soothing, presses to his head and he almost bursts into tears on the spot. “No, sweetheart, it’s Carol. Nini’s mom. Are you with me?”

Flashes of the past few hours flicker by and Ricky blinks hard to try and focus. “Mm-hmm.”

“Did you hit your head, Ricky?” Mrs. Carol asks, fingers carding through his hair to search for bumps.

“No,” Ricky rasps. His voice sounds wet and thready and gross. “Was coughing. My legs went. Landed on my arms.”

“You’ve got me pretty worried,” Mrs. Carol says. “You’re _burning_ up.”

“Sorry,” Ricky whispers, though he’s not sure why. He just feels fucking _bad_.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Mrs. Carol says. She looks at him in the face and he has to close his eyes. If he looks at her too long, the anxious twist of her mouth, the concerned furrow in her brow, he thinks he’ll start bawling. And he _knows_ that’ll make him cough.

“I think we’re going to go to my house. Okay, sweetheart?” she says finally, and he lets his eyes open again.

“Sure,” he agrees. “For what?”

“You’re very sick,” she says patiently. “It’ll be easier for you to get better if we can look after you.”

“Oh,” Ricky says. He frowns. “What about school?”

“It’s Friday, sweetheart. There’s no school tomorrow,” she replies. She looks even more worried. 

“Oh,” Ricky says again. “Okay.”

Standing is still difficult, but with another person to help, Ricky’s on his feet in under a minute. He winces when Mrs. Carol puts his arm over her shoulder. 

“Sorry. Sweaty,” he pants. Walking is much harder than he remembered. 

“I’m not surprised, with the fever you’ve got going,” she says gently. “Have you had any water today?”

It takes Ricky several seconds to search his spotty memory. Finally, he remembers: “I made sure to drink a whole glass earlier. Before I laid down.”

“Good!” Mrs. Carol praises, and the tone of approval briefly makes him feel just a little less terrible.

They make it to the car and shuffle Ricky into the passenger seat, where he has to focus on dragging his feet in one at a time. Mrs. Carol gets in the other side while Ricky tries to tug his seatbelt across his chest, feeling impossibly feeble. He gets it most of the way, but his hands are shaking so badly he can’t click it into place. Mrs. Carol’s hands cover his to buckle it completely and that familiar shame curls hot at the base of his belly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay, Ricky,” she says gently, and he almost believes her.

He must nod off again in the car, because what feels like moments later, she’s shaking his shoulder gently to wake him up.

They get Ricky inside and amble to the couch, where Ricky sits hard and goes practically boneless. Mrs. Carol disappears for a moment and Ricky just tries to catch his breath without triggering a coughing fit. She comes back a minute later with some clothes – a big pair of sweats and a t-shirt that has a pride rainbow on the front.

“Let’s get you into something more comfortable,” she says. “Need any help?”

“No,” Ricky blurts quickly, bending down to untie his shoes. No matter how fucked up he is, he is not having his ex-girlfriend’s mother dress him. “That’s okay,” he says, yanking off his shoes and sitting back up.

Flipping his head down and back up so quickly was a mistake, though, and he has to clamp his eyes shut when his vision blurs and spots so he won’t be sick.

“Whoa!” Mrs. Carol cries, planting a steadying hand on his shoulder that reveals he was definitely about to pitch forward face first into the coffee table. 

After a few seconds, he regains some sense of balance and opens his eyes again. “’m alright.”

“At least let me help with the hoodie,” she implores, and Ricky feels too shaken to object. They get it over his head, and she takes it from him. “I’ll wash this.”

“You don’t have to,” Ricky objects.

“I’ve got a load of darks I need to do,” she insists. “You can get dressed while I’m out.” She vanishes before he can protest, leaving him to the shirt and pants. 

The shirt is easier than the hoodie, just a thin cotton graphic tee, and once he’s holding it in his hands he can feel how wet it is with sweat. He wrinkles his nose and shivers as the cool air hits his sweat-damp skin. He wrangles his sports bra off and quickly puts the new shirt on, admiring the incredibly soft material. He even manages to haul himself to his feet to change his pants, even though he has to sit back down to ease his feet out of his jeans and into the sweats, as well as stand back up to get them over his butt. By the end, he’s collapsed back onto the couch, energy completely spent. He’ll need help to get back up again.

“Done?” Mrs. Carol’s voice floats in from the other room.

“Yeah,” Ricky responds as loudly as he dares. It’s still too much, apparently, and terror seizes him as he begins to cough again. It’s painful and loud and awful, even with Mrs. Carol’s comforting hand appearing on his back a few seconds into it. Blessedly, maybe because he’s sitting, it’s not as bad as the one that nearly killed him, but he’s shaking and gasping by the end.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mrs. Carol sighs, and it’s the fucking closest Ricky’s comes to losing it all night at her gentle tone. “I brought you some water.”

She offers him a cup, only half filled – probably because he can’t stop fucking trembling – with a little bendy straw poking out. It’s like the water glasses he’d seen by Nini’s bed when he came to see her when she had the flu last year.

He _will not_ fucking cry.

He sips at the water through the straw, wishing the pounding in his head would stop for even a few minutes.

“I’ll bring some bedding so you can lie down,” Mrs. Carol says, then vanishes into the kitchen. A few seconds later, Ricky blinks dazedly when Mrs. Dana walks in, sitting next to him on the couch.

“Hey, buddy,” she says quietly. “Carol says you’re not feeling too hot, huh?”

Ricky nods slowly, wary of coughing again.

“Where’d your parents go?”

“Um,” Ricky mumbles, lump growing as he thinks about his empty house. “Mom went back to Chicago. She was supposed to stay all weekend, but this morning, she and dad…” His mouth twists without it meaning to. “Well, she had to go. And Dad was supposed to be off, but whenever Mom leaves, he gets all…” he trails off, eyes wandering before settling on Mrs. Dana’s face. Right, he was saying something. What was he saying? “He left for work. Or something.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Dana says, and her voice sounds very strange. Ricky’s never heard it sound like that. “Well, I’m really glad that you called Carol, Ricky. You know that you can call us any time you need something, right? _Any time_.”

“Any time,” Ricky parrots, and Mrs. Dana gives him a tight smile, reaching out to press a reassuring hand to his knee. It feels really nice. Like it’s keeping him from rattling apart. Then she walks out of the room.

Angry, Ricky realizes belatedly. She sounded angry. At him? Did he make her angry? Even now he can hear Nini’s moms talking to each other in the kitchen. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he has experience with detecting a tense tone from a distance. Crashing on their sofa, ruining their night, making them fight – he was really good at messing up marriages, even the happy ones.

Mrs. Carol walks in, bedsheets in hand and a kind smile on her face. It doesn’t _look_ fake. It doesn’t _feel_ fake when she reaches down to brush his hair aside to feel his forehead. It’s still a very cool hand, and it’s such a relief he can’t even feel embarrassed about the sweat she swipes off onto her pants.

“Brought you some Tylenol,” she says. “Have you eaten today?”

“Um,” Ricky says, because if he’s being honest, he has no idea. His memories of the past few hours are one long smear of pain and fear.

“Well I brought some crackers and some more water. I don’t want you taking meds on an empty stomach.” She points at the coffee table. “Sit there, eat and drink a little, and I’ll set up the couch.”

He feels impossibly weak when she basically manhandles him from the couch to the table. “I can help,” he protests feebly.

“Ricky,” she says, her voice stern but not unkind. It makes him snap to sit up straight unconsciously. “Eat your crackers and drink your water.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs, and does just that.

The crackers seem to ease his aching, tumultuous stomach, and the water is cool enough to soothe his destroyed throat. By the time he’s finished half a sleeve of crackers and most of his water, Mrs. Carol is done.

“Are you hungry? Do you want anything else?” she asks, helping him ease back onto the sofa.

“No, thank you,” he mumbles. The crackers were fine, but he has absolutely no appetite.

“Have you thrown up or anything?”

“No,” Ricky says, relieved by that. “I hate throwing up.”

“Dana’s the same way,” Mrs. Carol says fondly. “I always tell her if she just lets it happen, it’ll make her feel better.”

“I’d rather _die_ ,” Mrs. Dana says melodramatically, appearing suddenly from the other room.

Mrs. Carol rolls her eyes theatrically, and it startles a weak but genuine little laugh out of Ricky. He doesn’t miss the triumphant look they share at the noise.

“We’re just in the other room, alright? We’ll check on you again before we go to bed,” Mrs. Dana says kindly.

“Just call if you need,” Mrs. Carol adds. “Or,” she presses his phone on the coffee table into his hand, “text if you can’t raise your voice, alright?”

He looks down at his phone, then back up at them, their loving faces shining down at him the way he’s seen them look at Nini. The way his parents’ do sometimes, used to more often, before they started fighting all the time. He has to look back down at his phone again.

“Thank you,” he finally manages to say. He hopes they blame the crack in his voice on his illness, but he can’t bear to look up at them to check.

“Of course, buddy,” Mrs. Dana says, her hand dropping to rest on the crown of his head for just a few seconds. It makes him think of his dad, and that makes his heart hurt. “Let us know if you need us.”

He doesn’t trust his voice not to crack again, so he just nods.

He doesn’t move until they’ve left the room, and he stays still a few more seconds just in case. He finally lets himself recline, wriggling into a comfortable position on his side that keeps the pressure off his chest. He finally lets his burning eyes slide closed.

 _“What_ are you _doing here?”_ Nini’s voice comes sharply, jerking him from whatever semi-conscious state he was in.

He’s completely disoriented. He has no idea how much time has passed, what’s happening, or where he is. He blearily takes in Nini standing at the foot of the stairs, looking furious enough that he shrinks back instinctively. Nini, because he’s in her house, on her couch. Because, he blinks, sweat dampening his hair and the throbbing ache in his chest persisting, he’s sick. And he called his ex-girlfriend’s parents. His ex-girlfriend who was furious with him.

He’s so fucking stupid.

Before he can say anything in reply, she makes a noise of frustration and stomps off to the kitchen, where he can hear her demand, “ _What is he_ _doing here?”_

He can hear both Mrs. Salazar-Roberts start to say something, but his mind is already whirling too fast. Of _course_ Nini would be pissed he was here, he totally flaked on rehearsal today! And now here he was, invading her home and making everything worse, just like he always does. Just when he thought that he and Nini could salvage their friendship, he has to go and fuck everything up even worse than it already was. How fucking typical.

His anger spirals and he reaches down to yank his blankets off, throwing his legs over the side of the couch and aggressively hauling himself to his feet. He’ll just walk back home again. It’s only a twenty-minute walk. He’s done it a million times. 

He makes it exactly one step before he suddenly remembers the last time he did this. And, because he never learns his fucking lesson, the exact same thing happens. His huffy breathing jerks a cough out of him, and his knees seize and give out beneath him. He catches himself better this time, though, so maybe he did learn something. It’s hard to feel victorious when you’re buckled onto all fours and hacking a lung out, though.

His ears ring for a brief second and dread fills him at the thought of being sprawled out helpless again, but it fades as he catches his breath, registering a set of hands on his back, soothingly moving up and down to settle him. He realizes with disgust there’s a line of drool coming from his mouth and reaching the ground. and he swipes at it hard enough to make him bite his tongue again. 

“Sorry,” he croaks.

“You’re okay, Ricky, you don’t need to apologize,” Mrs. Carol’s voice is behind him. It’s her hands on his back.

He cranes his neck up to see Mrs. Dana holding Nini in the doorway. Nini’s half turned into her mother and she doesn’t look angry anymore. She look scared actually, eyes wide and gripping tightly at the arm her mother has wrapped around her.

“Ricky?” she asks quietly, her voice as small as she looks in that moment.

It takes him a second to gather the strength to say, “I can go home.”

“What?” Nini gasps, before both of her mothers override her, disagreeing loudly with him.

“No, you can’t,” Mrs. Dana says sharply.

“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Carol says, hands tightening around his arms like he’s going to make a break for it (like he’s not pathetically half collapsed on the floor with her arms keeping him upright).

“No, no of course not,” Nini rushes to say. “I’m so sorry, Ricky, I didn’t realize.”

“Realize what?” Ricky says dumbly, wiping more sweat off his face.

They all stare at him quietly for a few seconds and he racks his brain for what to say. What did he just say? Were they upset with him?

“I didn’t realize you were sick,” Nini says softly. “Like, really sick.”

“Oh,” Ricky says. He blinks a couple of times, listening to the way his own breathing rattles awfully as it comes and goes. He wonders if they can hear it, too. “Oh. I guess I am, huh?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Mrs. Carol soothes. “Let’s get you back on the couch, alright?”

“Alright,” Ricky mumbles. He tries to help, but she does most of the work, flopping him onto the sofa and wrapping the blanket over his shoulders. She sticks a thermometer in his mouth and he almost gags, surprised. It quickly beeps and she makes a disapproving hum when she reads it. 

“102.8,” she murmurs, frowning. “It’s too early for another dose. I’ll get you some water and a cold compress.”

“Okay,” Ricky mumbles. “Sorry.”

Mrs. Carol pauses now, hovering over him and looking at him in a very peculiar way. He looks away, feeling the guilt, shame, humiliation coil around the base of his spine and spread through his stomach and chest.

“Now, Ricky,” she says carefully. “You keep saying that, sweetheart. What are you sorry for?”

“Um,” Ricky says anxiously, because he doesn’t know.

“Because you don’t need to be. You have no reason to feel sorry,” she says gently.

“Well, I do,” Ricky snaps, because he’s exhausted and strung-out and aching. “I just feel so _fucking_ sorry.”

The instant it’s out of his mouth he snaps his jaw closed, fear sparking through him. He just yelled at her. He just _swore_ at her. He disrespected her in her own house after she’s been so kind, taking care of him, and he _knows_ he just said he’d leave, but he really doesn’t want to go home right now – he _really_ doesn’t want to be alone.

“Ricky,” she says, and she doesn’t sound upset but – 

“Sorry,” Ricky gasps. He hauls himself up so he’s sitting upright, and he can hardly look at her in the face but he _makes_ himself. He’s shaking now, full on trembling. He’s such a piece of shit, acting like a stupid brat in front of the only people who have treated him kindly in the last day. He’s ruined _everything_ all over again. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Salazar-Roberts, I – I shouldn’t have said that, that was so awful.”

“Ricky, sweetheart.”

“I promise I didn’t – it just slipped out, I didn’t mean to – to be so rude, and if you want to take me home now, I completely –”

“Ricky,” she says sharply, and his jaw snaps shut with a click. “You are not going home – do you understand me, young man?”

Ricky nods quickly, blinking quickly to keep the tears building in his eyes at bay, staring at his hands fidgeting in his lap.

Mrs. Carol’s hands cover his and she’s quiet while he gets his breathing back under control. When he settles, her voice is much gentler. “You’ve had a really terrible day today. You can say fuck as many times as you want, alright?”

He carefully lets his eyes flick up to meet hers and feels an inkling of relief under his shame when he sees her little smile, the teasing in her tone finally registering a few seconds late.

He opens his mouth and she cuts him off, saying, “You better not apologize to me right now.” 

He closes his mouth a moment, then tries again. “I didn’t mean to… inconvenience you, tonight. I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

“Ricky,” Mrs. Carol says very seriously. “I found you on the floor of your living room delirious with fever. That is not an inconvenience; that is an emergency. Nobody is upset. We’re just worried for you.”

“Even though…” Ricky trails off, looking over Mrs. Carol’s shoulder to see Nini and Mrs. Dana still there, looking at him with concern. His eyes drop back to his lap.

“You’re the kid,” Mrs. Dana says from across the room. “We’re the grown-ups. We’re supposed to look after you. It will never be an inconvenience.”

Ricky sets his jaw and breathes a wobbly breath through his nose, teeth grinding together. He can't help that he doesn't believe them.

“We're really happy you called us,” Mrs. Carol adds, her voice so soft that Ricky can barely hear. Trying to make it a private message for him. The kindness of it makes his chin buckle and his lip wobble before he can get himself back under control.

“Okay?” Mrs. Carol prompts.

He nods.

She pats his hands twice, then touches his cheek before she stands up. “So. Water and compress. Yes?”

He nods.

“Good,” she says.

He keeps his gaze on his lap, listening to them leave. He feels fatigued. Like he could sleep a month. Like he could just keel over and die and it'd be a relief at this point. He can't embarrass himself anymore if he's dead. 

“Hey, Ricky.”

He actually jumps, full on startled by Nini’s voice, head snapping up to look at her with wide eyes.

“Sorry!” she rushes to say, eyes equally wide. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Sorry.”

“’S okay,” Ricky mumbles, eyes shying away again.

“Here.” She thrusts a water glass at him. Mostly filled, but he can rest it on his leg between sips to keep from shaking.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Yeah, of course,” Nini says emphatically, and he can see her gesture out of the corner of his eye. “Hey, Ricky,” she tries again, softer this time, touching his leg until he peeks up at her. “Of course,” she says, more firmly.

He nods to let her know he gets it, eyes falling away.

“Um, I’ll get the cold pack. Be right back.”

They must be talking about him in the kitchen, because he gets most of the way through his water before she comes back with the compress, looking a little upset.

“Here.” She offers it to him the same way she did the water. When he lifts a hand, she snatches it back with a furrowed brow. “Um. Wait. Maybe like, you lie down and I’ll, um. Put it on your forehead. Is that okay?”

“Lying down sounds really good,” Ricky admits moving to set his water on the table. Nini grabs it and does it for him and he mumbles a thanks as he lies back down. She perches on the side of the coffee table, watching him nervously.

Once he settles Nini fusses awkwardly with his hair flopped on his forehead, pushing at it like she’s trying to move it without touching his skin, but she’s not doing a very good job. He doesn’t mind – every cool brush of her fingertips is a brief flicker of relief. 

Finally, she makes an annoyed noise and brushes his hair back with her whole hand, pressing the compress to his burning face. He audibly sighs in relief, watching the way her face flickers when his sigh rattles dangerously. 

It’s quiet for a few seconds.

“Sorry,” Nini says finally. “I don’t mean to be so awkward.”

Ricky processes the sentence slowly. Was she being awkward? It was kind of hard to tell. Everything is hard to tell right now. “Don’t worry about it,” he finally says. “I’m kind of… out of it, so. I can’t really tell.”

Nini laughs a little, then claps her free hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t laugh.”

Ricky manages a smile. “Whatever,” he says, feeling a little better when Nini smiles back.

The smile fades into a frown, though. Even sick and disoriented as he is, he knows what Nini’s Thinking Face looks like. 

“So, your parents,” she prompts hesitantly. She doesn’t say anything else, waiting for him to fill in the blank.

“My parents,” he agrees reluctantly.

“What happened?”

He lets his eyes slip closed. “Fighting,” he mumbles. “Y’know.”

“Yeah,” Nini whispers back. “Did they know? You’re sick?”

“I don’t think so,” Ricky says. “But um. It’s hard to remember. I don’t remember most of today.”

“Yesterday, you mean,” Nini corrects.

His eyes spring open and he struggles upright for a second. “ _What?_ What’s – what day is it?” He doesn’t mean to sound so frantic, but he’s lost a whole _day_.

“No! No no no, no hang on,” Nini stammers, pushing Ricky back down. “It’s like one in the morning, Ricky! It’s still Friday night, you’re okay! Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, you’re fine!”

His heart is still thundering, but he lets Nini ease him back down and fix the cold press. His hands are shaking again. He can’t stand the thought of losing any time, not knowing where his parents are, dazedly sick. It’s like a wretched nightmare, lost in his own mind and body.

“I’m alright,” he says eventually, though his heart is still racing and he's not sure he won't freak out again at the next minor inconvenience. Being sick makes him so flighty and nervous - so _vulnerable_. He hates it.

“So, you…” Nini hesitates. “You don’t remember all of today? Like… this evening?”

He won’t forget that horrific moment when he almost choked to death on his own living room floor for the whole rest of his life. He’s never been so scared as when his hearing and vision went away. The surrounding events are, admittedly, fuzzy. Obviously he called Mrs. Carol, but it’s strange he’d call her first and not –

“Did I call you?” He frowns, trying to remember. A faint memory niggles at the back of his mind.

Nini looks like a deer in the headlights, then guilt sweeps across her features. “Yeah. Um. A couple times. I ignored the first few, and when I answered, I just kind of, like. Yelled at you.”

“Oh,” Ricky says faintly. He can recall snippets of it now. The way her voice snapped and the shitty way he felt right after, sprawled on the ground pitifully.

“It was really shitty of me,” she says in a rush, like she's trying to head off his reaction. “I should’ve known something was wrong, you never _call_ , and I _know_ you wouldn’t just bail on us for no reason. I was a bad friend.”

“It’s okay,” Ricky says wearily. He doesn't have the energy to mad even if he wanted to. And he probably wouldn't want to. Nini never really makes him mad.

“It’s not,” Nini insists.

"I got here in the end, didn't I?" he tries to joke, gesturing weakly at the room around them, but it makes Nini scowl.

"You would have gotten here sooner if I hadn't been such a brat," she argues.

Ricky fumbles for a rebuttal. He doesn't want Nini to feel bad over something so dumb. "I called your mom, like, right after you. It would've been a couple minutes difference tops."

"A couple minutes of you lying on your floor like a freaking Life Alert commercial," she snaps, then claps a hand over her mouth again, eyes wide. "Ricky, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

Ricky's wheezing a little from laughing, shoulders shaking with mirth instead of something awful for the first time all day. "Good one," he compliments, ignoring how terrifying it had felt to be on the floor like that.

"It's not funny." Nini shakes her head, but her lips twist into a smile anyway. "It was shitty. The joke _and_ me hanging up on you. Total dick move. I get it if you want to be mad at me."

"I'm not mad."

"It wasn't cool."

“Well,” Ricky says, mulling it over slowly. Even through his foggy mind, he struggles to reassure her. “I forgive you anyway.”

Nini stares down at him silently for a few seconds, then smiles. “You’re a good dude, Ricky Bowen.”

“Whatever,” he mumbles, a pleased flush creeping up his neck. Hopefully he’s too fever-stricken to tell. He’s remembering more of the phone call now, though, and – 

“ _Rehearsal,”_ he hisses suddenly.

“Oh yeah,” Nini says, unfazed. “I already texted Miss Jenn to tell her what happened, and she said she hopes you feel better soon. You can stand by for rehearsal until you’re ready to step in again, no rush.”

“I missed rehearsal,” he moans, frustration mounting in him.

“You were sick.” Nini pats his head with the compress gently, as if to demonstrate his illness. “Like, _super_ sick, dude. No one’s mad.”

“But I tried so hard,” he insists. He fumbles for his phone, letting Nini help him grab it off the coffee table as faint memories trickle back. “I even set an alarm and everything!” He thrusts his phone in Nini’s face as proof, showing his alarms.

She looks at the screen for a second and laughs a little. “Yeah dude, that’s 3:30 _AM_.”

Ricky flips the screen around, dumbfounded by the two letters next to the time. He’d set the alarm wrong, like a fucking _idiot_. 

“Good attempt, though!” Nini giggles. “Kourtney does that _all_ the time; I always have to tell her to double check them.”

Ricky keeps staring at the screen. His frustration turns to anger, boiling even hotter than this goddamn fever, all because he was too fucking stupid to set the correct alarm like any sane, normal person would do. But of _course_ he managed to fuck _that_ up, because that’s what he does! He ruins everything he touches! He’s practically a fucking professional! Except he’s sure he would ruin that profession, too, he thinks savagely.

“Ricky?” 

His hand is shaking around his phone and he slams it on the table hard enough to make it rattle and make Nini jump. He gets even more angry at that. _Way to fucking scare her, dipshit._ He digs the heels of his hands hard into his eyes because god fucking damn it all, he’s definitely going to cry.

“I _really_ tried,” he says, but it comes out all throaty and strangled. He tries again. “I tried so fucking hard to make it to rehearsal, I _promise_.”

Nini makes some kind of noise, high and frantic. “I know you did, Ricky! You tried your best, it’s okay!”

“It’s _not_ ,” he snarls. “No matter how hard I try I just keep – keep _fucking_ everything up.”

“Oh,” Nini breathes. He can imagine the look on her face now, twisting to try and think of something nice to say even though he doesn't deserve it. “Oh, Ricky, no, it’s not like that at all.”

“I keep ruining everything.” His voice warbles around a sob that he’s fighting back. “The play, us, my parents, _your_ parents –”

“What?” Nini demands. He can’t see her face, his hands still dug into his eyes so hard it’s starting to make his skull hurt. Her tone is sharp, but she doesn't sound angry. She sounds confused, mostly. “What are you talking about?”

She deserves an explanation, he thinks dazedly, about how he’s ruined everything for her. “Your moms, they were arguing earlier, and – and I _know_ it was my fault because it’s always my fault, and – and I didn’t _mean_ to mess _us_ up, and I promise I really was going to come to rehearsals, Nini.” He finishes his sentence and a gulping sob punctuates it. He has no time to be embarrassed, because of fucking course it sends him into a fit of coughing.

He keeps his fists to his eyes throughout it until he’s done and someone else pulls them away. He’s so weak he can’t even resist.

“You’re going to hurt yourself, sweetheart,” Mrs. Carol says. “You can take some more medicine now, if you want.”

His body feels destroyed. _He_ feels ruined. He nods, eyes closed.

“Okay,” she whispers. 

By the time he settles again, pills taken, water drunk, he slumps half upright against the back of the couch, head tilted back. After a lingering minute of silence, he finally musters the willpower to look at Nini again.

She gives him a wobbly smile, her own eyes bright with tears. “Brought you a fresh cold pack.” She presses it to his head.

He doesn’t say anything. Every time he opens his mouth, he fucks something up. 

Nini doesn’t let the silence linger. “When you heard my moms earlier. They were upset. But it wasn’t really about you. Ricky, they’re mad at your parents.”

That doesn’t make sense. He allows himself to grunt inquisitively. 

She sighs. “Moms are mad that your parents just up and left you while you’re so sick. It’s fucked up. They were, like, bitching together. About your mom and dad. Because they were mad _for_ you, not at you.”

That… makes marginally more sense. _He’s_ not mad at his parents. He’s upset that they’re gone. He doesn’t want to be alone in his big empty house. Even if he hadn’t been sick, he’d probably be out of the house all weekend. He can’t stand being alone. And he misses them, and he wishes they wouldn’t fight, but that’s partly his fault, so how can he blame them for that?

“I’m pissed, too,” Nini says. “At myself, for not answering the phone. At your parents, for fucking you over. At you, for letting yourself get so bad my mom had to peel you off the floor by the time you asked for help.”

“I thought I’d be okay,” Ricky mumbles defensively.

Nini rolls her eyes and huffs, but a smile tugs at her mouth. “You _know_ how you are when you get sick.”

“Yeah,” he agrees mildly, thinking slowly. “But if I called Dad back, he’d just bum around, and I’d end up looking after _him_ instead.”

Nini doesn’t look amused anymore. “See, that’s bullshit. That’s so not cool, Ricky.”

Ricky frowns. “I guess,” he agrees unsurely.

“And what you said,” Nini says, gaining some momentum, “earlier, about the musical? You’re not fucking it up. You’re doing a really good job. I can see how hard you’ve been working on the choreo and everything. And you got cast as the lead! That’s awesome!”

He can’t help the happiness the swells in him at the praise. “I guess,” he says again, a little more shyly this time.

“And,” Nini adds, “that thing about – about us. It’s not – it’s complicated, y’know? It’s not just you or just me, but – that doesn’t matter anymore. We’re growing and learning and – you’re one of my best friends, Ricky. No matter what, we’ll always have that, okay?”

A lump swells in Ricky’s throat and his eyes mist again. Best friends. Maybe any other time, it would have sounded trite or pitying, but right now it just – it sounds _really_ nice. Sincere. “Okay,” he whispers. 

“And your parents? Are not your fault. Ricky.” Nini leans in close so he has to look at her. “I’m fucking serious here. Your parents are dicks for treating you like this, and you don’t deserve it. Their problems are not your fault. They make their own mistakes and their own problems. That’s not on you.”

Ricky closes his eyes so he won’t cry some more.

“You hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you,” he chokes out.

“Good. So _stop_ ,” she punctuates the word with a gentle poke to his shoulder, “talking about my best friend like that, okay? Because I’m gonna have to kick your ass if you say mean shit like that about him anymore.”

Warmth spreads in his chest. Not the burning feverish heat he’s been feeling for what feels like eternity, but a comforting, sweet kind that makes him feel happy and soft.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “Just make sure you shut him up when he’s being a tool.”

“Oh, you know I will,” Nini assents immediately, a grin on her face when he opens his eyes. It makes him smile. She puts both hands on his shoulders, growing serious. “You are not a fuck up, Ricky Bowen. You do not ruin everything. You’re a good person.”

Ricky feels his face crumple and he ducks his head. He leans forward unthinkingly until his face is pressed to Nini’s shoulder. “Stop making me cry,” he demands, muffled into her hoodie.

“Never,” she promises. “Now go to sleep. I didn’t do all this emotional labor for you to die of tuberculosis.” 

He snorts, letting her ease him back to curl up again. “No more yelling,” he says. “People keep yelling. I’m trying to sleep.”

“No more yelling,” Nini agrees. “Go to sleep, Ricky. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Ricky’s eyes slide shut, feeling the compress against his forehead and Nini’s fingers carding through his hair. He’s absurdly, deeply grateful for her and her moms right now.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Shut up,” Nini says affectionately.

He drifts to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i love ricky!!!!!! he's a sweet little dumb teenage boy who's absolutely having a shit time. when nini's moms opened their house to him without question i really almost got choked up at a fuckin d*sney+ high school musical show, but im a sucker for kids with shit parents having other good parents step in to help. 
> 
> and he and nini dated for a long time. a year is practically ancient for high school relationships lol so i know moms are pretty aware of his shitty situation, and nini, teenage angst and drama aside, always seems ready to help whenever it's really dire. i love friendship!!!!
> 
> so yeah, ricky + shitty parents who aren't coping well with their own bullshit + kids' tendencies to internalize things = ricky having some pretty dire self worth issues. it's hard to shake yourself free from them, even with the support he's learning he has. (also projecting??? idk who that is never met her)
> 
> ty very much for reading my high school musical the musical the series fanfiction. cannot believe i am writing that. what am i 15. christ.


End file.
